


in my sleep I dreamed of waking

by Marie (VampireSpider)



Category: Fried Green Tomatoes (1991)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-16
Updated: 2005-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireSpider/pseuds/Marie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruth does not regret, but she dreams</p>
            </blockquote>





	in my sleep I dreamed of waking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for marginalia

 

 

Days drag long and dusty after she married, dull and similar. She goes out very little, sees few people when she does go out, she stays inside, in a house that is humid, clinging and reeks of death. She sits by her mother's side, holds her hand while she stares out the small crack in the curtains, staring at the sun until all she sees are sunspots in her eyes. The room is dark, though, and the spots disappear fast enough.

She speaks to her mother, though little seems to register, and she receives no response except ragged drawing in of breath. Then again, she expects none, or she would not say what she does. In the dark of the room with only one beam of sunlight, in this refuge from her husband, from the world, in the dark room where her mother lies, dying, Ruth spins a story, a fairytale.

In her story, fairytale world, it's always summer and Idgie's always getting honey; the sun is bright above them, but it doesn't blind Ruth and the sky is blue and the whole world smells of light and laughter and honey. In this world she does not cry when she watches Idgie charm her bees - in the version, she smiles and laughs as Idgie returns to her. She calls Idgie bee-charmer; she makes Idgie smile that wondering smile, like she smiled that day. When Idgie offers her honey, Ruth licks it off her fingers that taste sweet and open and innocent like Idgie, like Idgie does when Ruth leans forward to kiss her properly. And Idgie kisses back, smiling against Ruth's mouth. In the story, Ruth does not feel too warm and she never shivers.

She does not cry when she tells her mother the story, fairytale, whatever it is, and her mother never interrupts. But afterwards when the story-world fades and all that is left is the harsh rasping of her mother's breath and the cold hand in Ruth holds, with the one beam of sunlight lighting her face, she kisses her mother's forehead and a few tears fall as she mumbles her prayers. They aren't tears of regret, not really, because Ruth has done what's right and her mother is comfortable in her last few days.

***

When she's with Frank, the world is harsh, dark and out of focus. Every moment she spends with him, she spends trying to dream herself away. They do not speak much - the words they share are circles of dust, dry and not important.

At first she was happy - she wanted to be happy. She knew she could be in time, if she put her mind to it; Ruth had never failed before. But Frank isn't a challenge, he isn't a husband, not the way she'd come to expect. In Frank she finds nothing she could love, no glimpse of tenderness or some hurt in his past that could make her reach out. Instead she straightens her back and resolves to bear out her burden as best possible.

When Frank hits her, life is easy enough - life is trying to survive, trying not to anger him further. The bruises and pains are lessons and on her body she bears the proof that she's fought and survived, her scars somehow make her resolve strengthen. She becomes weaker on the outside, limp like the yellow, wilted plants in the house, but in the soil of the plants and in the dark of her soul, she lets herself be strong. There is something, in the soil, in her soul, something deep and dark and alive that will be there long after Frank's nothing but a name.

But there are other times - when Frank takes her to bed, claims his marital right - then she feels like the something in her soul, the something she's been preserving, for her mother, for Idgie, for herself, might disappear. Every night they go to bed together feels like a loss. Frank takes from Ruth something she would not have chosen to give to him, though in movement and action she seems willing for him, open for him.

Every night after he has taken his pleasure and lies asleep beside her, she lies wide-eyed and awake longing for someway to cleanse herself. She lulls herself to sleep thinking of swimming in the river by the Threadgoode house, Idgie by her side.

***

Sometimes her dreams are breeze, a smell of lavender and willow trees, of Threadgoode cooking wafting through them. Her dreams are songs, are poetry, are flying. In her dreams, she laughs and smiles, she has people around her; people smile at her, they do not avert their eyes. She dances like she did before, and no one reproaches her for looking or tasting or living. The heat in her dreams does not stick like glue to her skin; the food that she eats does not taste of dust and death in her mouth. She wears no bruises and she does not style her hair to cover her eyes.

And then there are the dreams, the dreams that are like water, cool and like honey, thick and sweet. The dreams are soft; Idgie's soft, short hair; cool, gentle fingertips against Ruth's body and Idgie tastes like water, like fruit, like honey and like warmth, her soft tongue licking gently at the corner of Ruth's mouth. She moves against Idgie, feels breasts, stomach, legs, skin under her fingers, can hear the soft whispers and whimpers from Idgie, can feel her exhale against her throat. Ruth's fingers search and map, they move not so much with purpose as with want, and Idgie arches against them in such a delicious way. Idgie feels like honey, and her fingers mark Ruth as she shudders against her.

Idgie's mouth in turn is alternately cool and warm against Ruth's skin, her fingers are gentle, but Ruth can feel fingerprints all over her body. She does not stop touching Idgie, who slips down her body, marking Ruth with mouth and fingers, washing her clean. She kisses and tastes, and Ruth gasps and writhes in turn, Idgie's soft hair against her stomach, against her thighs, Idgie's breathy laughter against her skin and there are no words now, no words needed as Idgie licks and kisses and cleans Ruth from the outside in, until Ruth is nothing but water and Idgie's smile against her stomach.

When Ruth wakes to her house on sand, she does not smile, but her resolves grows again and one day, she knows, one day, she pledges, she will be out of this and she will be Idgie's. Frank is nothing, he will become less than that - with Idgie, with the Threadgoode's, with the river and nature and people around her who mean no harm, Ruth will no longer have Frank Bennett's mark on her.

***

Days drag long and dusty for Ruth, until she wakes one morning with the baby moving in her stomach and goes up into her mother's room and does not hear the harsh breathing. Barely any light comes in through the crack in the curtain, but in the small sliver, Ruth can see dust dancing. When she kneels next to her mother's bed and takes her hand, there is no sign of life. Ruth bows her head and kisses her mother's hand; it smells of dust and death, but underneath there is a slight scent of honey and Ruth feels tears prick her eyes. She is surprised when they do come, wet and cold against her too-hot face as she mumbles the Lord's Prayer against old and sodden sheets. There is still warmth in her mother's body as Ruth rises and closes her eyes; she folds the sheet and arranges her mother's hands above it, still mumbling words of prayer underneath her breath.

She kisses her dead mother on her forehead, her cheeks, before dropping to her knees once again to pray - but this time she prays for life; she feels the movement of the baby in her stomach, hope welling in her throat. Soon, so soon, and she prays, prays for her mother, prays for Idgie, prays for her baby, prays for her family and for the dreams, for the fairytale. She stands, tall and proud, even with her heavy stomach and her mother's death; she feels a little guilt at her relief, but not enough - not nearly enough to make her stop planning, stop hoping. She stands at her mother's chest of drawers, ready to go through her things, find the things she needs to pack down before she writes to Idgie, and then pauses. On top of the chest of drawers lies a Bible; there is a bookmark in it.

When she opens the book, it opens to RUTH; her mother must've underlined a paragraph before she took to her sick bed; it reads `And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God'.

Ruth turns the bookmark over, and there, in her mother's frail, spidery hand is written, `go to her, and go with God.'

Ruth closes the book with the bookmark still inside, holds it against her chest for a moment. Her back straightens more, and for what feels like the first time in years, she smiles, a gentle, happy smile. Somewhere no so far away she can hear Idgie laugh and she can taste honey in her mouth.

 


End file.
